After some semi-comatose recovery time from my Taos-Fail, I wheeled my art cart into Starbucks yesterday and camped out for the morning. Surrounding my surrogate-self on the page with the warm, chuffing bulk of pachyderms coaxed my sore brain to a softer place.

I also started working with my Panda Planner, a tool my therapist highly recommends. Along with the regular planner-type stuff, it fosters brain health with headings like What I’m Grateful For, Things I’m Looking Forward To, and a nightly review that includes Wins for the Day.

I feel like I’m starting to crawl out from under the stress of moving (or not knowing when I’ll move) and get back to things that need attention. Slowly. Carefully. I don’t want to startle the elephants.

Like this:

I found out today that my therapist and the nurse practitioner who provides my medication supervision are leaving to start a private practice of their own near Des Moines.

If you’re in the mental health delivery system, you’ve probably experienced this kind of trauma. It takes years of searching to find a therapist who gets you, to find a psychiatrist or NP who works with you, only to have them leave, or the clinic closes, or whatever kind of insurance you have doesn’t work anymore. The most essential piece of your recovery drops out of existence. So you flounder, and in that vulnerable state, have to start searching all over again.

I’m lucky in that they will only be an hour away. After talking with my therapist today, my plan is to stick with them if they can get Medicaid-certified. Lots of “ifs.” So, it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. Except it is.

I hate how stuff like this confounds and unmoors me. Even with a solution in sight, I feel hysteria crawling up my throat. Just when my support system seemed to be jelling, just when it seemed safe to go back in the water…

I have to watch my catastrophizing—I see sharks when it might just be tuna. I have to keep breathing. I have to remember I’ll be fine no matter what happens. I’ve been here before—back when my boat didn’t even have a motor. So, I’m okay. I just wish there wasn’t so much chum in the water around me.

Like this:

I’m at that phase of The Chest Cold/Bronchitis Opera where initial mania (Ooo, goodie! I get to sleep all day and eat Raman Noodles!) gives way to the longer aria of depression. I’ve been singing this part for several years now, and sometimes the Dark Solo can go on for months. As can the bronchitis itself. It’s a nasty, double whammy. Sorta like Brünhilde losing her immortality AND getting thrown on a pyre. Heh, Heh. That Wagner. What a cut up.

This season, though, I’m finding the depression to be different. Not easier—that strum und drang never gets easier—but simpler. This time, I have the gifts my mom left me to help me through the whole Ring cycle—her almost-new Honda and a small monthly income from investments.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—the stress of poverty kills. The hopelessness and desperation it creates turns a person into a sack of mindless meat. It yanks away the will to live and leaves said person on bloody knees. It’s a weight that can’t be shucked off or reasoned with—like Sisyphus’ stone (Oops. Wrong Mythos).

I thank my mom every day for taking away my need to choose between medicine for chest blight and gas for her wonderful car. I thank her for taking away the stress of being squashed-flat by poverty. Eliminating that stressor has already made a huge difference in how I deal with my bipolar disorder. Now I have a real chance to manage it.

But I still have to manage it. Last week, someone asked me if, since I had a little more money and didn’t have the stress of my Peer Support job, I’d ‘get over the whole bipolar thing now.’ I wasn’t sure how to answer. It’s not like a cold sore that flares up when you get nervous and then fades away. It’s not a case of hives. It’s a mental illness. I still have to strap on my breast plates and take the stage. Every single day. And belt out that damned song.

Don’t be fooled. The fat lady sings because she has to, not because the show is over. This is one show that never ends.

This reads like Shakespeare to me. Just an example of how my brain is functioning these days.

It’s a comprehensive mixed bag, this version of my life. Enormous gifts and luxury garbled with great loss strangled by stress and cracked open by success. I don’t have a map for this place. I don’t know the language. I’ve given up looking too closely at it because it just makes me pukey.

What I’ve decided to do is just stand still. If I’m giddy in the morning and too depressed to move by lunchtime, I try to just be that. If I touch a client in some way or receive a compliment, I try to just feel it. If I get into my mom’s car and weep when I find one of her nail files (she had millions), I sit with myself through the wave of grief. If I try to eat a whole pizza for supper and end up getting sick, I listen for the fear that wants to be buried under food. If I feel a glut of old trauma pushing at me when I work with Ben (because he’s a boy, and I’ve had trouble with boys who “help”), I let it come.

It’s too hard otherwise. Too violent. Too disrespectful.

I’m worthy of kindness and attention. I deserve to be considered. I don’t have to be anything other than me in this moment.

This lesson is not easy to learn.

Which is why I keep getting the chance to try.

Maybe when I get on the other side of this uncharted, alien landscape I’ll have a better idea of what it was.

Like this:

These past four weeks have taught me a few things about work and me in a post-electroshock, ongoing-recovery age.

First, I need a steady schedule. Routine is my best friend. Without it I become crazy batter waiting for a nice oven to turn me into cupcakes.

Second, I need a place to use my skills. I do have some and like to trot them out on occasion, if only to remind myself what they are.

Third, I’m pretty good at handling a crisis, but it takes a toll on me. There’s a reason I never worked in an emergency room or intensive care. Some people thrive on that adrenaline rush. Me, it just makes hysterical.

So as I tallied up the week’s events at work, I noticed a disturbing trend. My schedule resumed its rubber ball act, trying to land on all the meetings we’re forced to attend. I spent most of my time making cold-calls to crazy people who really didn’t want what I was selling. And everyday brought some kind of client crisis.

I knew it was a risk to campaign for a job that no one could describe. I had no idea what I was getting into, but I was willing to wait and see what happened. After sticking it out for a month, I decided it was time to pull the plug. I typed up a resignation letter and gave it to my boss today.

I felt good about it. Four weeks working in chaos and on a learning curve like the Himalayas felt like success to me. I hadn’t blown up in a bipolar blitz. I even contributed. I could leave gracefully, without torching any bridges. I looked forward to recovering from the stress and getting back to TechCon. I’d left Carrie and Robert alone for too long.

But my boss had other ideas. She simply refused to accept my resignation. I can’t remember all the incredible things she said about me, but it was clear she would do anything to make me stay. I needed a set schedule? Done. Never mind that the government says some meetings are mandatory. “I will take care of it,” she said, “because this is what you need.”

I don’t like making the enrollment calls? Forget about them. I’m uncomfortable dealing with clients in crisis? Let the Care Coordinators do that. So, what the heck would I be doing?

I’m to be a consultant for the rest of the team and maybe, if I feel like it, work with a few clients each week.

Are you shittin‘ me?

What do you do when someone values you so much they take away every obstacle?

Miraculously, I’ve finished another week of work. My life is both easier and harder. Holding this paradox seems to be the Work set before me.

Easier: Mom left me her 2011 Honda CRV, a car with features and comforts I never thought I’d have again. I can hardly believe it’s mine. After scraping a few dollars off the top of my disability check each month to save for a Smart Car, this thing of luxury dropped into my lap (or parking lot). The first time I filled the gas tank, I cried. It cost about half of what it took to fill my dad’s truck.

When Mom bought the car after Dad died, she said to me, “You know you’ll probably get this soon.” It was just one of hundreds of references she made to her own death (It’s that thing old people do—”I won’t be around much longer, so you better…”). I didn’t pay much attention. I was glad she had a zippy little car that she loved. Driving made her feel safe and in control. I absolutely understand that.

Harder: My schedule at work is all over the place—mornings, afternoons, mid-day. I’ve told my supervisor that I need consistency. I need time for my own self-care, and I need to be able to depend on it. I’ve tried to hold my fifteen hours a week to afternoons, but this week was the worst so far. And it’s all to make sure I attend an endless parade of mind-numbing meetings. Some of them have been important—orientation to the organization, introductions to other agencies working with us, procedure—but most are irrelevant to my position. Our boss wants us all to be cross-trained. Part of that, I think, comes from not knowing what our jobs really are yet. But the more of these meeting I go to, the more I can see what’s mine and what’s not mine to own.

Easier: My boss relented on the meetings. She created a buddy system, so my buddy will let me know if I miss anything important. That allowed me to take charge of my own schedule. I’m working 1:30-4:30 every day starting next week. Good for me, but also good for the team. Now they know when I’ll be available for client interviews and care conferences (what I should be doing).

Harder: I had built up a reservoir of stability with my routine and daily monitoring. That’s used up. Everyday is a fight to turn my fear and negativity around. Everyday I feel myself sliding toward lethargy and old habits. I’m hypersensitive and my concentration is fragmenting. I can still see it happening. I can still pause, breathe, and choose not to react, but I’m getting so tired.

Yesterday I had to leave a meeting. The woman leading it was one of those people who starts a sentence, restarts it, jumps to another topic, restarts that sentence and never gets to the point. I know a couple of people like this. They drive me ape-shit. It’s a neurological thing—my nerves want to grab them by the throat.

Luckily, it was the end of my day, and I ran to the Chinese restaurant to eat lunch, listen to my iPod and journal. It helped, but I’m not getting back to my set point like I used to. I’m not able to repair the damage each day all this stress creates. It’s only a matter of time before I really blow.

Easier: Our parents left us some money. It’s not enough to live on the rest of my life, but it will give me some breathing room. I can do my laundry every week. I can get some work clothes. I can even plan a trip to the Southwest this winter to see if more sun and open space will keep me from needing hospital-level care come spring. Poverty has been the biggest stressor in my life. Mom and Dad knew that. They planned their last act of love carefully to ease that for me. I’m so grateful.

No matter what happens, no matter how the easy and the hard continue to play against each other, I am a success. I have gone to work every day for three weeks. That’s a miracle. Walking through the office door is a miracle. Waking up and doing it again is a miracle. Even if it all stops today, I’ve triumphed. No one can take that away from me. It’s all mine.

The stress is enormous, not just for me, but for everyone trying to learn this new program and making up the next steps as they are needed. The real challenge for me is to moderate the anxiety and pressure. Under stress, I’m easily overwhelmed. I’m like a teacup that flattens, slopping out my ability to concentrate and my emotional flexibility. I lose capacity.

I also become reactive, and my first instinct is to bolt. I run from the stressor, fling it off and dive into a hide-hole. So, the words “I can’t do this” fly in and out of my head regularly.

But part of my personal journey is to work on increasing my tolerance to distress. If I’m ever to make any lasting changes in my behavior and my life, I need to work this work situation like a puzzle. What do I need to do to stretch my envelope of tolerance? As always, I created a plan.

The first piece is to breathe. It’s my starting point. When the acronyms start flying and I can feel my body vibrating like a tuning fork, I stop and breathe deep into my belly. It tells me to come back to myself. It starts the process of flinging off the assumptions and negativity. Breathing deep, I can remember why I’m doing this. I can remember I don’t need to understand. I can remember that I’m not alone.

I also realized that creating more structure would help soothe the anxiety, so I put an After Work plan in place. I go straight home, change, and go to the Y to ride the recumbent bike for an hour. That helps burn off some of the adrenaline and agitation. Then, I journal with a cup of something soothing. Then, I meditate. After that, I’m rational enough to eat a sensible supper. This helps. Instead of bingeing all night with a movie, I’m taking positive action to stretch my tolerance.

And it seems to be working. I may be an emotional puddle by the time I leave the office, but by the next morning my teacup is upright and able to hold water.

This is new behavior for me. It’s also more stress than I’ve endured in years. I’m proud of all that. I’m also aware that I could blow at any time. That’s the unknowable, uncontrollable piece to bipolar disorder. All I can do is stay as mindful as I can from moment to moment and see what happens.

Like this:

The last time I had this much change, pressure, and emotional hoo-haw in my life I ended up getting electroshock. That was then, as they say. This is now.

Yesterday I started my job as a Peer Support Specialist. The Integrated Health Services team (of which I am a part) is squeezed into one tiny office and a converted utility closet (the sink is still there). Ten people with lap tops, all talking on the phone, or to each other, or elbowing into their TV-tray-sized work spaces. The plan is to move the team off-site to a real office space. But for now, we are literally on top of each other.

A year ago—heck, three months ago—I would have bolted from that chaos after a half hour. But, I didn’t. And the fact that I didn’t makes me proud. I could feel dread and panic creeping into my head like Dark Shadows mist, turning my thoughts sour and rigid with resistance. But then I went on my first client visit, and the doubt and hysteria melted.

Talking to clients, listening to them, asking questions, empathizing and marveling at their courage and resilience—it all fell into place. What I used to do as a nurse, what I do now with this blog, even what I’ve become as a person all come into play when I’m with the clients. I was made for this job. I can do this.

So, last night I drank a beer, popped a Xanax, and slept long and hard. This morning I was ready to jump back into the fray. Until I got my own TV tray, I set my laptop on top of a waste basket to do my work. That was fine. I’m relearning Windows after eight years alone with my iMac. That was fine, too.

Everyone on the team is supportive, enthusiastic and only a little less confused than I am. This roll-out of Integrated Health Services across the state is enormous, complicated, sometimes incomprehensible. It makes us comrades. They sent a lovely card and a plant when my mom died, and I’d only met them twice.

We’ve been digging through lots of old stuff at my mom’s house. We found a box with my grandfather’s WWI kit and a trunk of my dad’s with his WWII navy uniform and a photo album. In those pictures, I can see how tight the bonds are between Dad and his friends. I understand that a little. I’m not saying we’re experiencing anything like what Dad and Grandpa went through, but adversity and a common goal does something to a group. Those of you in business know more about this than I do. There’s probably even a name for it.

I know these people have my back. I know they won’t let me fail. I know they will understand if I ever do have to bolt from the room. And I’m not afraid to do it if I have to. Because I know how to take care of myself now—without plugging into the power grid.

Feeling so grateful for my Sister in Charge, who is performing her Trustee duties with grace and diligence. As the stress starts to weigh heavier, and I paddle faster to stay afloat, I can rest in this thankfulness where there is more space to breathe.

Grateful, too, for all my friends and family who have agreed to “babysit” me at suppertime. Eating that evening meal alone is too much to face at present, so when I called in the cavalry, they galloped to my aid.

There’s a kind of frenzy that happens after a death in the family. There’s a sea-change during the rush of funeral arrangements. Details drag at the ankles, family and well-wishers swarm, then dart off. It’s like dropping to the bottom of the Mariana Trench and popping back up without a decompression chamber. Something in the blood bubbles.

Then there’s the Bank Dash, a treasure hunt for the right piece of paper, guarded by people who speak a foreign language. Just when a few words start to make sense, the Lawyer pulls out a different map and the hunt gallops off in another direction. Everyone has a different opinion about how to read the legend, how to get from Here to There. It’s the Tower of Babel flattened to an Iowa cornfield.

I don’t do well with frenzy, so there have been some outbursts. Most notably, the sprint out of the lawyer’s office to cry in the street. But, for the most part, I’ve managed with great aplomb, even if I do say so myself. I’ve learned a lot since my dad died a couple of years ago. I understand how stress affects me. I know what to do to lessen the impact. I’m a lot stronger than I ever believed.

Also, I’m blessed to have a sister who is In Charge. Now that the initial chaos has settled, she deals with the insurance companies, the banks, the appraisers and auctioneers. She’s tossed out that old map and made one of her own. Thank the Stars.

We have a house to clean. That’s something I can do. If I break it down into the tiniest tasks. Like emptying one drawer in one dresser. Like bagging up the clothes in one closet. Tiny tasks. A beginning and an end. That stops frenzy cold. That turns a task into a meditation. There’s space for deep breathing. The blood starts to de-bubble.

And I need to practice coming back to mindfulness, because the stress isn’t over. I start my new job as a Peer Support Specialist in a week, and I still don’t know what I’ll be doing. My clinic is part of the whole restructuring of Iowa’s mental health delivery system. I’ll be part of the Integrated Health Services Team, and I’ve met those folks—a nurse, case managers and an administrative assistant. I’ve attended a couple of “professional development” sessions that made no sense to me—except for the HIPAA presentation. I get HIPAA and how crucial confidentiality and privacy will be in my work. The rest is gobbledygook. I figure if I need to know this stuff, someone will tell me eventually.

Because none of the other Peers know what’s going on either. That makes me feel better. And the rest of the team is flying by the seat of their pants. Professionals making it up as they go along. So, I’ll find out more when I start next Monday. Or not.

I know I’m at risk. Stress exacerbates symptoms in anyone with a mental illness. It can lead to a lapse or full-blown relapse. Things could get pretty hairy. But, I’ll do what I know to stay present and keep breathing. And I’ll dream about my trip to London in September. Because that won’t be stressful at all.